


Head Full of Doubt

by enigma731



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: Peter isn’t sleeping when Rocket’s call comes over the comms, though it’s past the middle of the night, and he’s lying half-dressed in bed.If he’s being honest, he hasn’treallyslept in three days, not since Gamora disappeared.





	Head Full of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fennethianell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fennethianell/gifts).



> Warning for pretty graphic aftermath of torture. Thanks to [invisibledaemon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/works) for beta, and for coming up with the details of these injuries (lest you all think she's not capable of angst ;) ).

Peter isn’t sleeping when Rocket’s call comes over the comms, though it’s past the middle of the night, and he’s lying half-dressed in bed. 

If he’s being honest, he hasn’t _really_ slept in three days, not since Gamora disappeared. He’s lost track of time, actually, the hours merging together into a shapeless fevered mass of panic. He’s spent most of it listening to his Zune, he thinks, though he’d be hard-pressed to name a single song he’s heard in that time.

_“Quill, where the hell are you? Get_ down _here!”_ comes Rocket’s voice, and Peter doesn’t even have to ask why.

He’s managed to fight his way clumsily into a shirt and pants, has one boot on but can’t find the other in the mess of his laundry and other debris that’s littering the floor. His heart pounds wildly as he scrabbles around for a futile few minutes, then gives up, kicking at one of the piles and slamming the intercom to respond. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

And then he takes off at a run, one foot slamming against the Quadrant’s grated deck, the other slipping dangerously. It’s practically a miracle when he makes it to the shuttle bay without giving himself a concussion.

The first thing he notices is the acrid burned smell of metal scraping metal, and the smoke that escapes during an improper landing. Hell, he’s experienced plenty of those in his lifetime. The next thing that catches his attention is the presence of the unnamed M-class ship that’s been missing as long as Gamora, though it looks considerably worse for wear. There are burn marks scoring the hull, almost certainly from weapons fire, and he can see the weak glimmer of forcefields in a few places where structural integrity’s been lost. He doesn’t have much time to think about that, though, because the next thing he realizes is that the ramp is down, the hatch open, and then he’s off and running again.

Gamora is slumped in the pilot’s seat, he can see from ten feet away, a few locks of disheveled hair hanging over the back of it. Mantis is leaning over her, blocking his view any further, and for a moment he feels utterly paralyzed, boiling silently in terror that he is too late, that the others are about to tell him Gamora is dead.

“She was unconscious when we found her,” says Mantis, giving Peter a look that he _thinks_ is supposed to be apologetic. Or maybe just afraid. He’s still never really sure, with her. “She is awake now, but she does not want to talk to me. Or any of us. Only _you_.”

It takes a moment for Mantis’s words to sink in, for him to realize that it isn’t the worst case he’s been expecting for the past few days. When they eventually _do_ , he still finds himself unable to speak, choking on the rush of relief, and the residual horror at what _has_ happened here. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and swallows hard.

“Rocket went to get a medical kit,” says Mantis, when he’s still silent. She straightens and takes half a step backward, her movements still tentative, torn. “But I think we will need more than that.”

“No _we_ ,” comes Gamora’s voice, slicing straight through the adrenaline that’s been keeping him immobile. “What did I say?”

“He is here,” says Mantis, cocking her head toward Peter and giving him an expectant look.

“Yeah,” he breathes, moving to kneel beside the pilot’s chair, and looking up at Gamora for the first time. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here.”

Gamora manages to turn her head then, and Peter actually gags on the sheer horror. Her face is covered in blood, so much of it that at first he can’t even pinpoint the source. It must be a headwound, he thinks, or perhaps pouring from her nose or mouth. Looking closer, he realizes that the scars he’s always seen healed over with silvery skin are dark now, sticky and wet with blood. _They_ are the source, he realizes, freshly carved into the delicate skin of her face, the intricate cuts equal parts precise and cruel. He has to turn away for a moment, swallowing bile convulsively.

“Quill,” comes Rocket’s voice, breaking into his awareness again. He’s standing at Peter’s shoulder now, holding out a medkit, its long strap coiling like a snake against the deck. “Might wanna move her. I’ll get Drax if--”

“No,” says Peter, the roiling adrenaline that’s been rendering him helpless finally beginning to resolve, to center itself on a sense of desperate purpose. “No, she said just _me._ ” 

He takes the kit from Rocket, slinging the strap over one shoulder so that the bag rests against his hip, and then turns back to Gamora. She’s still uncharacteristically quiet, but he can see in her eyes that she’s alert, following everything that’s going on. Following every detail of his reaction. Every detail of his failure, if he fails. 

He takes a deep breath and crouches in front of her again, steeling himself against the sight of the cuts on her face, the thought of what must have happened for anyone to _do_ this to her. “Hey. Think you can stand?”

She nods once, lets him get an arm around her shoulders and pull her to her feet. It’s then that he realizes her clothes are soaked in blood as well, clinging to her skin in a way that makes his stomach churn anew. Suddenly it’s clear why she’s been so quiet; he knows that Gamora withdraws when she’s in pain, when she’s feeling anything other than strong and in control. The way that she’s leaning nearly her full weight against him says that walking will be precarious at best, though he doesn’t think she’ll ever voluntarily admit that she can’t do it.

“Nevermind,” he says decisively, shifting his arm down her back and getting the other under her knees. 

The fact that she doesn’t resist being lifted confirms all of his suspicions about how bad this is, and he doesn’t say another word as he carries her straight back to their quarters.

“Thank you,” she whispers, as soon as the doors are closed, and Peter feels as though his heart resumes beating at the sound of her voice.

Still, he hesitates, overwhelmed by the horror of this, by the need to help her in so many different ways. Gamora is a rock, an anchor, unfazed so far by the worst of crises. Seeing her like this now--bleeding, clearly in shock--shakes him in a way he can’t quantify. 

“Tell me what to do?” He isn’t prepared to ask what happened yet, needs to make sure she isn’t going to bleed out before he can face anything else.

“Shower,” she says immediately, like she’s thought this through somehow. “Need to get the blood off. Close the cuts.”

“Okay,” he agrees, carrying her into the bathroom, then pausing, unsure again. The shower is large, but it generally requires standing. He has the feeling that lying on the floor of it while covered in open wounds would be an excellent way to get an infection, enhanced immune system or no.

“Just let me lean somewhere,” says Gamora, as though she can tell what he’s thinking, far more alert and open now that the others are out of sight, out of earshot. She’s all business now, already shifting her weight to put her feet back on the ground.

Peter lets go carefully, setting her down so that she can lean against the wall. Then he moves as quickly as he can to strip his clothes back off, grateful suddenly that he’s barely managed anything more than a t-shirt and sweats, that he _doesn’t_ have a second boot to unbuckle.

When he turns back to Gamora, she’s managed to get her coat and vest off, though her fingers are uncharacteristically clumsy. The blood on her shirt is concentrated in very specific locations, he realizes, and with a fresh sense of dread what he’s about to see. The scars on her body--on her her back, her hips, the space beneath her sternum--have all been freshly cut as well.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, unable to stop himself.

“If you are going to vomit,” says Gamora, her face steely and blank despite the wounds, “the toilet is conveniently right there.”

“No,” says Peter, though he isn’t as _entirely_ sure as he’d like to be, just _can’t comprehend_ the cruelty of this. “No, I’m--Let’s just get you into the shower.” He closes the distance between them again, helps her out of her own boots and pants.

She holds onto his shoulder as they climb into the shower together, keeps her weight partially resting on him as he starts the spray, though she seems to be avoiding his eyes now as he takes in the full extent of her injuries. The cuts are deep but clean, the pure, surgical precision of them adding to the atrocity of it all.

“How much blood have you lost?” asks Peter, taking stock as he forces himself to look her body over with the kind of cold, objective focus he uses when he’s at the helm of a spacecraft, in the middle of a fight. There is no time for emotions--difficult though that’s always been for him, _especially_ in medical emergencies--right now, he needs to figure out her injuries immediately and deal with them before she loses consciousness again, or worse. He’s spent the past three days of her absence feeling utterly helpless; now he has the chance to _do something._

Gamora shakes her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” She takes half a step away from him, hissing through her teeth as she turns her face to the spray, lets the water pressure wash the cuts on her face, dried blood turning brighter as it swirls down the drain. 

“Doesn’t _matter_? Gamora--” He bites back his anger, reminds himself of the tasks at hand, of how important they are. “Okay. Fine. It doesn’t matter. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes glassy with pain and an emotion he can’t quite read. Anger, he thinks--probably the anger she uses like a shield, when in reality there is fear beneath it. “What, this doesn’t look like enough?”

“ _Gamora_ ,” he repeats, his voice rising momentarily in both volume and pitch before he gets it back under control for what feels like the hundredth time in this whole goddamn nightmare. “Look, you want my help, right? That was the point of you asking for me. So tell me how to help you.”

“I didn’t want _you_ so that you could ask obvious questions about my injuries,” she snaps. 

The last couple of words break in her throat, and suddenly Peter realizes that he’s being an idiot. Gamora needs help with her injuries, yes--she needs someone to help her wash the blood off, to seal the cuts on her back and sides, to reinforce them with bandages. But more than that, she needs to feel safe, needs acknowledgement of the fact that _someone_ has flayed open the most vulnerable parts of her body. She needs someone--him--to promise that this is going to be okay, somehow. So far, he’s utterly failed to do that.

“Hey,” he breathes, his own throat tight. “Hey, I love you. I’ve just--been worried sick.” 

Peter reaches out cautiously, waits for the smallest nod before wrapping his arms around her. Gamora folds herself in against his chest, as though the pain from the cuts means nothing at all, holding on with strength he’s surprised she’s able to muster. He reaches up carefully, running his fingers through her tangled hair, wanting to offer comfort but afraid to touch her elsewhere and worsen the pain.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against his chest, and he can’t quite tell whether he can hear tears in her voice. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t the plan.”

Peter can’t help it--a huff of air escapes him, not quite an incredulous laugh. “What exactly was the plan? You just--disappeared! Since when do we do that to one another?”

She takes a shaky breath, keeps her face hidden against his shoulder. Still, he can feel her hand shaking as it plays along his back. “The Black Order has been tailing us for weeks. Waiting for an opportunity. When I realized, I knew that I had to head off the threat.”

“Gamora!” He’s aware that he probably sounds like an idiot, haplessly repeating her name as his exhausted brain struggles to keep up with this whole thing. “Let me get this straight. You found out that Thanos had sent an assassin to kill you--”

“Not just me,” she interrupts, her tone telling him ought to be obvious. “All of us.”

“Thanos sent an assassin to kill all of us,” Peter amends, skirting over that particular fact like it’s the least important thing in the world right now. “And you went to face them _alone_. Without telling us what you were doing, or how to help you if things went bad.”

“Yes,” says Gamora, as though he’s still being particularly slow about this. “But things did not ‘go badly,’ as you say.”

“ _Gamora!_ ” He leans back a bit, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s losing the ability to respond in any sort of coherent way, really. “Someone basically drew pictures on you with a knife. How is that not _going badly_?”

She shrugs, looking up at him again, finally. “That someone is dead. We are not. My body will heal.”

Peter exhales slowly, a long, pained sigh. He wants to remain angry at her, wants to tell her that this is unacceptable, that he isn’t sure whether he can stand to be with someone who doesn’t value her own life as much as he does. But this is who Gamora is. This is who he loves, doomed or not.

“You’ll ask for help next time, right?” he asks, because he can’t _not_.

“Yes,” says Gamora, turning her face into the spray again, away from him. “Next time I will ask for the team’s support.”

They both know she’s lying, Peter thinks. They also both know that there’s nothing to be done about it. She won’t-- _can’t_ \--change, as long as the threat of Thanos still looms, and he’s not about to walk away from her in the meantime.

“Do you think the cuts are clean enough?” he asks after a moment, because he can’t ignore the fact that she’s still bleeding, much as he might want to.

She nods, reaching up to turn off the shower, the shaking in her fingers having abated somewhat. At least the heat seems to be helping. “Get the liquid bandage from the kit. It should be sufficient to close the cuts until my skin can regenerate.”

“Might want a towel first,” says Peter. 

He steps out and wraps one around his own waist first, then helps her out. The cuts are still bleeding enough to stain the towel, so he throws it down on the bed before helping her sit. She’s silent as he gets out the little tube of liquid bandage and begins sealing the cuts. He knows from experience that the stuff stings like hell, but she only closes her eyes and fists her hands into the blanket behind her. The bandage has an antiseptic scent to it, and for a moment he feels the familiar tug of memory, the ghost of a Terran hospital in his mind, and he shoves it savagely down.

“How’s that?” he asks, when he’s finished, though he can’t imagine that it can be very comfortable. The cuts aren’t bleeding any more, though, and they look like they’ll probably hold with just this treatment, at least for a while.

“Good,” she breathes, slowly maneuvering herself up onto the bed, curled up on her side so that she looks impossibly small.

Peter casts about for a long moment, looking for something else to do. “You want--clothes? Pain meds? Water?”

Gamora shakes her head, eyes half-closed as she allows herself to relax. “Come here. Just--need time.”

In more ways than one, thinks Peter, finally crawling in beside her and burying his nose in her damp hair as she drifts off, utterly exhausted. He hopes that _time_ is a luxury they’ll still have.


End file.
